


just another kind of memory

by reindeerjumper



Category: Bridget Jones (Movies), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: ...sorta canon divergence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, First Kiss, Scars, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 16:25:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18832312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/pseuds/reindeerjumper
Summary: scars are like memories, but something about this particular moment has mark thinking he couldn't forget it if he tried.





	just another kind of memory

**Author's Note:**

> for the OTP prompt _Your OTP initially in a friendly competition to show off their scars to the other. Person B’s pride begins to dip toward lust when A’s top comes off. As well for Person B when A hikes up their skirt for a better scar visual to… “one-up” B._ , from [here](https://otpdisaster.tumblr.com/post/182966624755/your-otp-initially-in-a-friendly-competition-to). i couldn't resist. this takes place in BJD right after the blue soup dinner, but before daniel shows up. also, thanks to sfaith for headcanoning scars for these two with me! <3

“How did you get it?” 

Mark could hear his own voice asking the question. He was looking across Bridget’s living room at her best mate, Tom. Shazzer and Jude has left an hour ago, Shaz with some excuse about meeting her pot dealer (Bridget had shot her a look, Mark’s presence clearly putting her on edge), and Jude had gone off to meet her boyfriend (which, Mark noticed, had caused Bridget to roll her eyes). The only friend remaining from the disastrous meal of blue soup and homemade marmalade was Tom.

There were several empty wine bottles between them, plopped next to a half-eaten extra large pizza. The three of them were somewhere in the middle of a conversation about scars and stupid decisions. 

Bridget was sitting next to Mark on the couch, her legs crossed underneath her as she tried to take a bite of pizza without spilling her own wine. She snorted inelegantly as she chewed. Mark turned towards her, unable to keep the amused glint from lighting up his eyes. It was still hard to believe that she even wanted him around, after the way he had treated her at the Turkey Curry Buffet. 

“Yeah, Tom, how  _ did _ you get that one?” she said around a mouthful of pizza. Mark watched her as she wiped a bit of sauce from her lip with a fingertip before licking it clean, and the primal part of him wished that it was his finger instead of hers.

Tom huffed in exasperation as he rolled his eyes. He took a sip of his own wine before placing it down on the end table. Mark watched in amusement as Tom started to pull down the turtleneck of his red jumper. He yanked it down far past the point of his collarbones, and it was then that Mark saw the object of their discussion.

Right across Tom’s pectoral muscle was a scar, about ten centimeters long, no longer red and raw, but smooth and discolored. Tom was pulling his chin back, trying to glance at himself, and he brought his free hand up to run the pads of his fingers across it. 

“Well,” he said, his chin still tucked incredibly close to his Adam’s apple, “I got this scar from being an absolute klutz.” He looked up, briefly glancing at Bridget, who was still doubled over in silent giggles. Tom rolled his eyes before looking at Mark. “My first boyfriend hated chest hair, so in my love addled haze, I thought that shaving my chest was a marvelous idea. I didn’t use a safety razor, though, and, well…” He gestured vaguely once again at his scar. “He actually ended up breaking up with me right after I did it. Said he couldn’t handle the stress of being someone who almost sliced their own nipple off like a piece of pepperoni. Honestly, I probably ended up better off.” 

At that, Tom released the fabric of his turtleneck, and it slowly contracted back to its original shape. Tom took the last bit of his wine in one gulp before sinking back into the seat cushion. 

“What about you, Mark? Any battle wounds?” He directed the question at Mark, but his eyes were on Bridget, a devious smirk on his lips.

It was Mark’s turn now to glug down his wine, taking the opportunity to keep quiet. He wasn’t exactly a haphazard person. He prided himself on his precariousness. He wasn’t in a line of work that often placed him in harm’s way, and his nature was far from... _ reckless.  _

Mark’s eyes darted between the two people in front of him. Their eyes were both on him, Bridget's burning holes into him and Tom’s smirk making him sweat. 

“Well, uh, let’s see…” he mumbled, shifting in his seat to place his wine glass on the floor. “I don’t have anything quite as harrowing as Tom’s—“ 

Bridget let out a guffaw, and the sound made Mark’s chest constrict. Her laugh was goofy and genuine, and Mark found himself thinking that he could listen to it for the rest of his life. He cleared his throat. 

“I do, however,” he continued as he rucked his shirt from his waistband, “have one particular scar right here…” 

It had been almost a decade since the surgery, but the scar was still visible, right above his hip bone. He could still remember the searing pain it had caused him, the haphazard trip to A&E in the back of Daniel Cleavers stupid Jaguar, his meager attempt at living a full life flashing before his eyes. Some of the things he had mumbled in fear still made him blush. 

He was now unbuttoning his dress shirt from the hem. The wine thrumming through his veins was enough to make him pleasantly buzzed, but not buzzed enough to ignore the hungry way both Tom and Bridget were watching him. Mark blushed inadvertently. 

The buttons were undone up to his navel, and he pulled the two sides away before yanking up the bottom of his vest. He couldn’t see the scar from this angle, but it had now been part of him for the better part of ten years. He knew it like the back of his hand—about ten centimeters long, slightly raised, no longer pink, but just a shade darker than the rest of his torso. 

“How in the world did you get  _ that?” _ Tom said around the rim of his wine glass.

Before Mark had a chance to respond, Bridget exclaimed, “Oh my god, I have the same scar!” 

Mark’s brain barely had time to catch up to his mouth as he watched Bridget gather the hem of her jumper. Her torso was smooth and creamy white, with just a freckle or two smattered across it. Mark’s throat was so dry he could barely swallow. A sheet of blonde hair had fallen across her face as she looked down at her hip bone, and Mark was mesmerized by the way it caught the light and shimmered like street lights on wet pavement. He was so enchanted by her presence that he almost didn’t realize her thumb hooking into the top of her trousers to pull down the waistband.

_ Almost. _

Any rational part of Mark’s brain was now completely shut off. He was surprised he wasn’t drooling on himself as he watched more of her skin appear before his very eyes. The soft curve of her waist, the barely noticeable jut of her hip bone, the almost-identical ten centimeter scar to his own...the only thing anchoring him to the Earth was the erratic thumping of his heart in his chest.

With practiced ease, he watched Bridget run her thumb over the pink scar before lifting her head to look at him.

“Appendix?”

Mark swallowed thickly, trying to regain some traction on his vocal chords. He cleared his throat, bringing a fist to his mouth and averting his eyes, before saying, “Yes, my appendix.”

“How long has it been since you’ve had it out?”

“Almost ten years ago.”

“Shut up.”

Her abrupt response snapped him out of his lust-driven reverie and he gave his head a small shake. “Pardon?”

“Mine was almost ten years ago, too!” she exclaimed. “Maybe we were in the same A&E and didn’t even know it!”

Mark smiled at this. His eyes were locked with hers, and he saw something infinitesimal flash in her pupils that sent an electric shock through his spine. He didn’t have a chance to respond, though, because Tom’s voice cut across the room.

“As fascinating as all this is, I’m going out to have a fag. Bridgeline?”

Without breaking eye contact, Bridget shook her head  _ no,  _ her hand still curled around the hem of her jumper. 

“Suit yourself,” Tom said, heaving himself off of the couch. Mark saw him in his peripheral vision grab a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from his coat pocket before he cut between the two of them and headed toward the balcony.

As they heard the door latch shut behind Tom, Bridget slowly lowered her shirt before running her fingers through her hair. She looked shaken, like something was weighing on her but she didn’t know how to tackle it. Mark could sympathize. The urge to gather her up in his arms and kiss her was so strong that he wasn’t sure he could tamp it down.

“Are you alright?” Mark asked softly.

“Hm?” she said, her eyes snapping back to his. He watched her shoulders deflate as she said, “Oh, yes, I’m fine.”

“Mmm,” Mark hummed in acknowledgement.

A few seconds passed, both of them shifting uncomfortably across from each other.

“Mark?” Bridget broke the silence.

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Funny, I wanted to ask  _ you _ something.”

“Oh. You first, then.”

“No, no, you go first.”

“Mark, please. You go first.”

“No, I insist.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Bridget huffed. 

“Well, see, I just...I was wondering…” Mark swallowed again. His palms were sweating and the air in the room suddenly felt very close. He cleared his throat. “I was just wondering if I could, um, kiss you?” 

“Oh God, I thought you’d never as-” 

Bridget’s reply was cut short as Mark surged forward, his mouth hungrily claiming hers. She tasted like wine and some kind of fruit lip balm. As he kissed her, Mark felt her hands snake up his back before burying themselves in his hair. She pulled him closer, her nails raking across his jawline as she deepened the kiss, going up on her knees to get a better angle at his mouth. He wrapped his arms around her waist, reveling in just how warm and soft she was against him. Bridget groaned at the contact. 

“Fuck,” she whispered, breaking apart to catch her breath. Mark searched her face, her eyes sparkling and her mouth red and kiss-swollen. “Kiss me again,” she breathed. 

Mark was happy to oblige. 

The second time was just as sweet, and he felt Bridget press her thigh between his legs. It was Mark’s turn to let out a groan, a gutteral sound that he hadn’t heard himself make in years. His hand came up to cup her breast through the fabric of her jumper, and he felt her nipple harden beneath his touch. The reaction made him smile against her mouth.

He wanted to scoop her up, whisk her off to her bedroom, explore every inch of her body and kiss every bit of skin he could find.

But the urge was cut short when they were interrupted by an aggressive knock on the flat door.

Bridget pulled back, panting heavily. She dragged her palm down his cheek before saying, “Who the  _ fuck _ is that?”

“You’d better answer it,” Mark said, equally winded.

She leaned forward and kissed him again, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth before pulling back again with a grin. “Don’t you dare move.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mark growled.

He watched Bridget hop over the back of the couch before slumping back against the cushions. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Unable to stop himself, he grinned as his head rolled onto the back of the couch.

From the foyer, Mark could hear Bridget undo the latch and open the door. He turned his ear towards where she was, listening to see who it was. Maybe Shaz forgot her lighter, or Jude forgot her coat. 

The voice, though, was much deeper than Mark anticipated. It was a man’s voice. A voice he recognized.

Just as the realization of who was at the door hit, Mark heard the door to the balcony open behind him and Tom exclaim, “Fuck, it’s cold out.”

Before Mark had a chance to respond, Daniel Cleaver drunkenly stumbled into the living room, a bottle of champagne dangling from his hand and Bridget hot on his heels.

“Darcy?” he said, his eyes growing wide.

“Daniel Cleaver?” Tom said excitedly.

“I can explain,” Bridget said from behind Daniel’s shoulder.

_ Fuck. _

**Author's Note:**

> and yes, the fight afterwards still ensues ;]


End file.
